


Missed opportunity

by TerresDeBrume



Series: Immortal Instruments Warm Ups [6]
Category: The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: F/F, Femslash February, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9553379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerresDeBrume/pseuds/TerresDeBrume
Summary: In which Clary tries to help, but she really doesn't.





	

“Ow!” Alec protests when Izzy manages to send him to the ground with a well-aimed kick of her right foot, “I said you should blow up some steam, not my kneecap!”

“You’d scold me if I didn’t give my best during training,” Izzy retorts, panting with exhaustion.

 

She may be trained and genetically enhanced, but even she gets tired after fifteen minutes of all out, no-rules combat, thank you very much.

 

“No,” Alec corrects, limping over to the benches at the edge, “I mean: you burst my kneecap. It hurts.”

 

Izzy curses between her teeth and slips under her brother’s shoulder, helping him until they can sit down and take a proper look at his knee which, yes, looks pretty obviously busted. Izzy would wonder how he even managed not to collapse in place, if not for the pain-suppressing rune combination engraved into his thigh that allows him to move the bones around without so much as a flinch.

 

“You don’t need to do that just for training,” Izzy scolds, forcing herself to keep looking at her brother’s gestures, the way the skin moves with every prod of his fingers, “what if you couldn’t fix it?”

“I can still feel when something’s wrong,” Alec mutters around his stele, “and I know better than to spar with you without preparation when you’re in that state.”

“I’m not in a state!” Izzy protests, but all it does is make Alec scoff as he snaps something back in place and draws three healing runes over his knee.

 

Izzy tries to keep going—even goes so far as to open her mouth to argue—but she’s been trained to asses her readiness for combat every day of his life and, much as she resent it, that means she knows she’s far too agitated to be in complete control of herself when presented with an opportunity to let some tension out.

 

“All right,” she admits, groaning when she realizes Alec hasn’t even attempted to keep going, waiting her out instead, “maybe I’m in a state. Doesn’t mean you have to let me bang you up.”

“I’ll be fine in an hour or so,” Alec shrugs, “it’d take you days to do something of your own volition.”

 

Izzy slaps him around the head—without force this time—and turns around fast enough to fall off the bench wh ** en s ** he hears Clary stifle a snort behind her.

 

“Sorry,” Clary says, looking anything but, “I couldn’t help it—it’s been a while since I saw anything funny.”

“Of course,” Izzy says with a reassuring smile, while Alec gathers his things and limps his way out of the room, “don’t worry, it’s not like this is serious.”

 

It’s never serious, when they use fists, but Clary isn’t ready to know that yet, so Izzy keeps it to herself. She lets Clary com ** e si ** t next to her instead, eyes firmly fixed on her face—the dark umber of it, the way it contrasts with the deep copper red of her coiled hair, the bright green of her eyes. There are other parts of Clary Izzy wants to look at—may think a little too much about—but they’re not what matters most, and certainly not what Clary needs right now.

At least, Izzy has a lot of training she can draw up on to maintain her focus.

 

“So,” Clary asks after a few moments of mostly comfortable quiet, “what’s got you in a ‘state’?”

“Do you want the list al **phab** etized or sorted by order of importance?” Izzy asks, cursing inwardly when her deflection doesn’t take.

“You know,” Clary says with a slight frown, “if you don’t want to talk about it you can just say so, you don’t have to play stupid.”

  


The shadow of a pout clings at the corner of Clary’s mouth, and Izzy wants to smooth it out with her thumb so bad the feeling prickles at her palms until she has to tighten her hands in to fists to squash the urge. She puts a hand on Clary’s shoulder then, aiming for friendly but not suggestive, and feeling a thrill of excitement climb up her spine when Clary leans into the touch.

  


“Thanks,” she says sincerely, “I just don’t think you can help me right now, and I don’t want you to worry about something you can’t change.”

“You don’t know that,” Clary protests, “maybe I could help.”

  


Technically, she’s not wrong. She could get on her knees and profess unexpected but heartfelt affection for Izzy. Or she could reveal she’s queer in some way or another and desperately attracted to Izzy. Or she could even go the simple, more clichéd route and kiss Izzy right then and there...if anything, it’d spare them more dancing around the issue.

Clary does none of that, though, and Izzy squashes the urge with the same ruthlessness she always has. Clary is a mission—they have to guide, train, and protect her—and Izzy can’t afford to work toward any other goal.

  


If Clary initiated things, well...that would be different. The Clave would still disapprove, like it disapproves of most human emotions, especially women’s, but here in New York—here in Izzy’s home, her team, her permanent quarters—love is understood as the unpredictable thing it really is.

Here, she can pretty much do what she wants—or who she wants—so long as it doesn’t come in the way of doing her job.

(She’s never talked to her parents about the girls thing, no more than Alec has told them about the guys thing, though. They’re progressive, but progressiveness sometimes has its limits, and Izzy isn’t any more eager than her brother to cross them.)

  


“Really,” Izzy promises, “I’m fine. A little worked up, but it’ll blow off, promise.”

“Okay,” Clary says, disbelief still coloring her smile, “but you let me know if I can help, okay?”

“Okay.”

  


Clary moves in for a hug and Izzy meets her in the middle, enjoying  the tickle of her friend’s cloud-like curls against her cheek as she breathes the smell of her deep. Then they part, arms lingering around one another for just a fraction longer than necessary— _ kiss me, kiss me, kiss me _ —Izzy thinks, but Clary doesn’t and they go their separate ways for the rest of the day.


End file.
